


The Adventures of Jane H Watson and Sherlock Holmes

by MrsJaneWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, F/M, Female John Watson, Fluff, Gender or Sex Swap, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJaneWatson/pseuds/MrsJaneWatson
Summary: Captain Jane H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers returns home from Afghanistan seeking a flatmate. Little did she know that this flatmate would end up changing her life… for the better. Genderswapped John Watson.





	1. The Study in Pink Pt 1

_All she could hear were gunshots. Ammunition was being fired, seemingly from every direction, though she knew that was only because she could not see what was happening. In truth, the only thing she was able to see from her position on the hard ground was a blue sky, cloudless, yet filled with dust and smoke. She knew something was wrong. She shouldn't be lying on the ground half-conscious and confused during a firefight. When did she get here? What happened? She racked her brain for possible answers, but she could remember nothing. It was at that moment that she felt a terrible, searing pain in her left shoulder. She knew, right then and there, without a shadow of a doubt, that she'd been shot. And if anyone else out there on the battlefield was to get wounded, she would be unable to help._

_"Jane? Jane?"_

_She heard her name being shouted, but at this point, she couldn't make out who it was. She looked around frantically, as much as her body would let her anyhow, but she could not find the source. From her position on the ground, she attempted to assess the wound, but could not lift herself enough to investigate the_ back side _of her shoulder. At this point, she couldn't tell which side of the shoulder was shot, nor if the bullet was still lodged somewhere in her arm. The only thing she noticed when she brought her right hand to her face was blood. And a lot of it. Her consciousness was beginning to fade and she knew that within minutes, she would be dead._

_"Please, God… let me live," she finally whispered, a single tear trailing down her face. And then everything went black._

~~~~~~

She woke up screaming. Sitting up in the small single bed, she frantically looked around the London hotel room she currently called home and realised that she was not in Afghanistan. Not anymore, anyway. No, those events happened months ago. And yet nearly every night that followed, she had that nightmare. Collapsing back onto the stiff mattress, she attempted to take some deep breaths and calm herself, all to no avail. She felt a sob build in her chest and a tremor in her right hand, and she knew this night would end no differently than all the ones before it. She silently prayed for this nightmare to end once again, and found herself slowly but surely crying herself back into a restless sleep.

~~~~~~

Waking up the next morning, she rose from her bed and hobbled across the tiny room to where her cane was waiting for her. She then walked over to the small table and opened her laptop to write in her therapist-mandated blog. But she just sat there staring. Nothing worth blogging ever happened to her. Nothing. Which is exactly what she planned to tell her therapist when she saw her later that day.

"How's your blog going?" Ella, her therapist, asked.

Chickening out of what she had planned to say, Jane replied instead with "Yeah, good… Very good."

"… You haven't written a word have you?" The therapist replied, looking doubtful.

Jane looked down at the notebook on Ella's lap. After noticing what was scribbled on the notepad, Jane deflected the question and instead replied, "You just wrote, 'Still has trust issues'."

"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean? Jane, you're a soldier. And it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Jane knew she meant well. After all, she was sure Ella had dealt with plenty of PTSD-riddled soldiers before and had helped them. But really, what did she expect Jane to write about? The dreary room she was currently living in? What she had for breakfast? No one would want to read that.

Jane sighed and looked away. "Nothing _ever_ happens to me."

~~~~~~

After her rather terrible therapist appointment, Jane decided she would go to the park not too far from Ella's office in central London. She hadn't spent too much time outdoors the last couple months due to the fact that it took much more time and energy to get there than she was willing to spend. So she figured, since she was essentially already across the street, that a little stroll through the park might help her clear her head and relax before she headed back to her sad excuse of a room. But after only a few minutes of walking, or well, limping anyway, she began to regret her decision. Her leg was sore. She was tired and cranky from being chronically unable to sleep, and even the unusually sunny London day could not make up for the pain she was feeling both emotionally and physically. At this point, all she wanted to do was sit down and take a breather for a few minutes before returning to the street and catching a cab back home. But of course, the closest bench to her was occupied. Figures. As she hobbled past the bench, she heard her name being called.

"Jane? Jane Watson?" Confused, she turned around. "Stamford! Mike Stamford, we went to Bart's together!"

As she looked at the man, realisation suddenly dawned on her. This was Mike, the awkward young man from school who used to have a major crush on her. Looking at him now, she could definitely tell he gained... quite a few pounds since those days. But then again, those days were quite some time ago. Lots have happened since then, she would know.

"Yes! Sorry, yes, Mike. Hello!" she replied with a fake enthusiasm and a handshake.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat," he joked with a smile.

"Oh, no, no."

"I, uh, I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at..." He began awkwardly, "What happened?"

Brief snapshots of that day flashed in her mind. The dust in the sky, cries and screams of fellow soldiers on either side, the smell of blood.

"Well, I, um, I got shot."

Not knowing what to say to her rather blunt and honest retort, Mike instead gave her a terse smile.

"Do you maybe want to go grab a cup of coffee? Catch up?" He hesitantly asked Jane.

"Um, yeah, sure." It's not like she had anything better to do that day, anyway. Or really any day for that matter.

A few minutes later, after visiting one of the many coffee shops surrounding the park they were in, they returned to a park bench and sat down, sipping on their drinks. The silence was rather awkward and Jane decided to break the silence.

"So, are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be... God, I hate them." They chuckled; Jane's being insincere. While it was nice to see an old friend, she really just wanted this unfortunate conversation to be over. She was not in the mood.

"What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

"I couldn't afford London on an army pension." And it was true, she really couldn't. She was living in the cheapest accommodation she could find and even then it was breaking the bank.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Jane Watson I know!" He replied with a smile. He really seemed genuinely happy to be reconnecting with her. It was too bad Jane didn't quite feel the same way.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the Jane Watson you used to know. Not anymore." She said looking down, the tremor in her hand returning once again.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike was one of the few people in Jane's life who had met Harry, though it was obvious he didn't know about her problems with substance abuse.

Jane scoffed. "Yeah, like that's going to happen."

"Well, um, how about a flatshare then?" Mike was running out of ideas by this point, but really wanted to be able to help his old friend.

"Oh come on, who would want me for a flatmate?"

Chuckling, Mike replied, "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

By this point, she was intrigued. "Well, who was the first?"

~~~~~~

Walking into the lab at Bart's hospital, she noticed new equipment, some she had never even seen nor heard of, lining walls and tables. She also noticed a man in the lab, who she had also never seen, completely focused on working with some equipment. He was slender with curly black hair and based on the way he was hunching over to use the tool, also seemed to be very tall. Was this the person Mike was talking about? Was he really suggesting a flatshare with a man?

"Bit different from my day." She commented to Mike.

"Oh, you have no idea," he replied with a chuckle.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," the mystery man interrupted without looking up from his work.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." He said bluntly, still not glancing up.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Uh, here. Use mine." Jane offered. The man finally looked up, wondering who else was in the room.

"Oh, um, thank you." Noticing the cane she was using to support herself, he decided to walk over to her to collect the phone.

"This is an old friend of mine; Jane Watson," Mike interjected.

"Oh yes, old _friend_ indeed." He collected the phone and without looking up, asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"...Sorry?" Jane wasn't quite sure she had heard him right. Had Mike told him about her already?

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan... Sorry, how exactly did you know.." Jane began to ask, but was interrupted when another woman walked into the room holding a coffee mug.

"Ah, yes, Molly. Coffee. Thank you. What happened to the lipstick?"

"It... wasn't working for me," Molly replied with hesitation.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is… too small now."

Jane stared, incredulous, at this man. Did he really just say that?

"… Okay." Molly replied, hesitating again before leaving the room. It was clear, even to Jane who'd seen these people for no more than two minutes, that Molly had a big crush on whoever he was. And he was either not interested, or completely blind.

"How do you feel about the violin?" He asked, out of the blue.

"Sorry, what?" Jane was still trying to comprehend his last statement. This question threw her off as well. The violin?

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He said, in all seriousness, staring at the computer screen he was now using. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"Flatmates? Who said anything about flatmates?" Jane asked, bewildered. She then glanced over to Mike who was sitting on a lab stool looking amused. "Did you tell him about me?"

With a knowing smile, Mike replied, "Not a word."

Still confused, she looked back to the man who apparently did not notice, or at least didn't care about the evident dumbfounded look on her face.

He sighed, not really wanting to explain but he also knew that she would not understand otherwise. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old… friend. Clearly, you are just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

Jane stood there for a second, just staring at the strange man before she finally asked, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Ignoring her question, the man simply responded, "Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Incredulous, Jane asked, "Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know a thing about where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

The man took in a breath as he prepared to list what he had deduced about her. "I know you're an army doctor. And you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help 'cause you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Jane looked at him with a blank expression as she attempted to figure out how on Earth he knew all that about her. As he was walking out the door to retrieve his riding crop from the mortuary, he added, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." Finally, he smiled and winked at Jane as he left the room while Jane just stood there, staring.

"…Yeah. He's always like that."


	2. The Study in Pink Pt 2

After yet another restless night, Jane went to the table, opened her laptop, and stared at her blog's homepage. After a few minutes of racking her brain, trying to think of something, anything to write about, she remembered what happened yesterday with the strange man she now knew was Sherlock Holmes. The thought then crossed her mind if the text he used her phone to send was still saved, or if he had deleted it. She grabbed her phone off of the table and opened her text messages, noticing one sent to a number she did not recognise. Realising that this text was the one Sherlock sent, she opened it.

**If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH**

_How the hell did he come up with that?_

Deciding to satiate her curiosity, she turned once again to her laptop, and in the search bar, she typed: Sherlock Holmes. She clicked the first link that came up, which happened to be his website: The Science of Deduction. The home page was dark grey with blue accents and a design resembling some buildings. She was honestly surprised a man like Sherlock would take that much time designing his web page. As she scrolled through the different articles and such on the website, she came across one titled: Analysis of Tobacco Ash, which thoroughly described how to differentiate between all 243 types of tobacco ash. As she continued scrolling through the website, she found an area pertaining to cases.

_Is he a detective?_

Looking through case files, one stuck out to Jane. "The Green Ladder." Knowing this one would pertain to the curious text he sent the day before, she read through the case. Apparently, a woman named Jane — she laughed when she saw the name — was convinced that her husband, Jack, was killed by his younger brother Keith, even though the police had believed it was an accidental death. It became obvious after reading through the case, that the substance Sherlock was looking at in the lab was gravel and he had found traces of green paint in the gravel that, because of the distance between the locations that had green paint, had to be a ladder. Keith knew that his brother was superstitious, so after sending him scotch to get him drunk, he set up the ladder in a way that would force Jack to walk around it, landing him in the pond where he drowned.

"Brilliant…" she whispered with a gasp.

She spent the better part of her afternoon reading case files from Sherlock's websites along with other, smaller cases she had found scattered about the internet. It became rather glaring after a few hours of looking him up that he was most definitely very skilled at being a detective. His "deductions" — as he liked to call them— were by far the most interesting things she had ever observed. And after several hours on the internet, it was time to go meet Sherlock at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

As she was walking up to the flat - and immensely regretting her decision to walk by that point - Sherlock was just pulling up in a taxi. She, of course, didn't see him right away, only noticing him after she had knocked on the door to the flat. She looked at Sherlock with an almost embarrassed look on her face as he walked up to the flat she assumed he'd already be in.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." Jane said, worried she wouldn't be able to afford the rent.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

Jane listened to his explanation; she had not read about this case online.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" She asked with curiosity, wanting to know the story of how it all happened.

"Oh, no. I ensured it." He replied bluntly and with a slight smile, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say. Jane was shocked, honestly; she hadn't expected that answer.

While she stood there unable to form a proper thought on what he had just said, the door to the flat opened and a kind looking older woman stepped out of the flat.

"Sherlock!" she greeted with a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Jane Watson."

"Oh hello, dear. Come in!" Mrs. Hudson said with a new enthusiasm.

"Hello," Jane said with a small smile as both she and Sherlock walked into the flat, "Thank you."

Sherlock bounded up the stairs ahead of her while she slowly but surely made her way up to the flat. It took her a bit longer to get up than Sherlock, considering she was using a cane, so when he reached the top, he waited for her to get to the door before opening the door to the flat. Jane walked in behind them and looked at the flat's common area that was nice but admittedly a bit of a mess with stuff just sort of strewn about everywhere. To her left was a fireplace with bookshelves on either side and 2 chairs. One was a more modern, black leather chair, while the other was more of an older style red chair with a London Jack pillow resting on it. Directly in front of her was a window, some sort of animal skull wearing headphones (which she found quite amusing), some boxes and a table, and to her right was a brown leather sofa.

"Well, this could be very nice," Jane admitted as she walked around to the kitchen, "very nice indeed."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with her, "I think so, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in."

He said this right as Jane was saying, "Soon as we get all this rubbish... cleaned... out..." she finished awkwardly. She hadn't realised all this "rubbish" was indeed Sherlock's. "So this is all..." she continued hesitantly.

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock said as he moved around the room picking up random items and securing a piece of paper to the fireplace mantle with a knife.

Jane was watching him do this, curious as to why he'd use a knife to hold the papers to the fireplace, but she was slowly learning to adapt to Sherlock's rather odd behaviour. However, she looked over slightly from the papers to see a human skull, which was definitely odd.

"That's... a skull..." she stated slowly.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock replied. And she wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not.

"What do you think then Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

_If we'll be needing two bedrooms? Of course we'd be needing two... oh._

"O-Of course we'll be needing two," Jane began, "We're not um... we're just looking to be flatmates, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, a shame. I thought Sherlock had finally found a woman who could put up with all of his nonsense," she said with a kind smile, whispering the last bit. But of course, that smile disappeared when she walked around to the kitchen and discovered the rather large chemistry set which was set up on the kitchen table. "Oh. Sherlock, the mess you've made," she said disapprovingly as she walked into the kitchen, attempting to fix it up a bit. As Mrs. Hudson was doing this, John fluffed the pillow on the red chair and sat down while Sherlock opened his laptop.

"I... looked you up on the internet last night," Jane admitted to Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?"

While she wanted to discuss literally every case she came across, she toned down her answer quite a bit in order to appear like less of a stalker than she actually was. "Found your website. The Science of Deduction?"

"What did you think?" Sherlock asked with a proud smile on his face.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?" Jane, of course, had read enough cases to prove his talent, but she wanted an explanation from the man himself.

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone." He replied rather smugly.

"How?" She asked, truly eager to hear his answer.

But, of course, instead of indulging her curiosity, he simply smiled a knowing smile and turned as Mrs. Hudson entered the room once again.

"What about these suicides then Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." As she was saying this, Sherlock refocused his gaze to the window in front of him. "Three exactly the same."

"Four," he corrected.

Jane was watching this exchange and noticed the police lights shining through the window. She had heard of the suicides after seeing a news article on the web. Apparently, they all had some similarities, but as far as Jane could recall there were only three.

_Did the police believe they were actually murders? Is that why they were here? Did they need Sherlock's help?_

Sherlock continued, "There's been a fourth, And there's something different this time."

As he was saying this, she heard footsteps approaching rather quickly on the stairs to the flat. A man she had never seen before, but someone she assumed was a detective of some sort with the police, walked in.

"Where?" Sherlock asked, knowing why the detective was there.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if it wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" asked the detective. Jane had even known about that after reading about it.

"Yeah?"

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on Forensics?"

"It's Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me," Sherlock admitted begrudgingly.

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I  _need_  an assistant."

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," the detective said, truly seeming grateful for Sherlock's help, and then promptly left the flat.

Sherlock stood there for a second, looking out the window and waiting for the other detective to leave before jumping up in excitement, which of course made Jane jump from the sudden action.

"Brilliant! Yes! Ah! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas," he said that last bit while literally twirling around the room, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson reminded Sherlock.

"Something cold will do," he replied, either ignoring her statement or not fully comprehending what she was saying due to his newfound excitement. Sherlock shouted as he ran out the door, "Jane, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

"Look at him, dashing about..." Mrs. Hudson directed toward Jane, "My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell."

Jane frowned at Mrs. Hudson's 'observation.' She really  _wasn't_  the sitting down type at all. And even though she  _was_  sitting right now, she was itching to run out the door and join Sherlock in his investigation.

"I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg," Mrs. Hudson continued softly.

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," Jane confirmed with a kind smile.

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reiterated.

"Oh, um, and a couple of biscuits too... if you've got them," Jane added, not wanting to impose but also really wanting some biscuits to go with her tea.

"Not your housekeeper!"

Jane picked up a newspaper that was sitting on the small end table near the chair she was sitting in and looked at the front page. Towards the bottom of the page was a small image of the detective that came to the flat a few minutes earlier. Apparently, his last name was Lestrade and he was the Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. She was actually quite surprised that someone in a position as high as his would be coming to Sherlock for help, but at the same time she wasn't surprised at all. After all, Sherlock was a brilliant detective.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway and making Jane jump. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

She looked at him for a second before getting up from the chair and responding, "Yes?"

"Any good?"

"Very good," she replied with confidence.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths?"

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes." At this point in the conversation, she was beginning to get little flashbacks of her time in Afghanistan. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes," she replied eagerly and began to follow Sherlock out of the flat. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to have to skip the tea," she called as she was going down the staircase to the ground floor.

"Both of you?"

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock had embraced Mrs. Hudson by the end and given her an excited kiss on the cheek.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she said with a disapproving look. Jane supposed she was right, getting excited over four people's suicides really was not decent. But Jane was just excited to be doing something for once, and was even more excited to see Sherlock at work.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Jane chuckled a bit as she followed behind him out of the flat and into the street. He was really just an overeager child when it came to solving puzzles. As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk outside of the flat, Sherlock immediately hailed a cab that was driving by.

* * *

As they were in the cab on their way to, well, wherever it was they were going, Sherlock was looking his mobile. Jane looked over, attempting to sneak a peek at what he was doing on there, and Sherlock noticed her inquisitive look rather quickly.

"Okay, you've got questions," He stated.

"Yeah, where are we going?" Truthfully that was the last thing on Jane's mind and she had many other questions, but she figured she'd start there.

"Crime scene. Next." Of course, Sherlock knew she had more questions.

"Who are you, what do you do?" After all of her research, Jane still hadn't quite figured out exactly what his occupation was.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say... private detective..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock explained with a smirk, "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

Well that was something she had never heard of before.

"What does that mean?"

"Means when the police are out of their depth, which is  _always_ , they consult me," he explained. She supposed that made sense. But why consult him? Obviously he was very talented in his field, but they were the police. Why would they go to a civilian?

"The police don't consult amateurs!" Jane chuckled.

Sherlock gave her a knowing glance before explaining.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?"

_Ah yes, finally! An explanation!_

"I didn't know. I saw. The way your hair is styled and how you hold yourself says military. And your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts, so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action then." An expression of pain flashed across her face for a brief moment as his words brought back some very unpleasant memories. But it was only for a second, as she composed herself quickly, hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed. Of course, Sherlock catches nearly everything, so her facial expression did not go unnoticed by him. He filed the information away for now, and would revisit it later, if need be. For now, though, he simply continued on with his conclusion. "Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq," Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist," Sherlock pointed out. "Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?" Jane was momentarily confused. She didn't have a brother. Then she remembered one of Sherlock's deductions was about her 'brother' being a drunk. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell him he was wrong and see the look on his face.

"Your phone. It's expensive, iPhones, in general, aren't cheap and this is one of the newest models. And you're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time, it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't treat her one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy, you know it already."

"The engraving," Jane confirmed.

"'Harry Watson.' Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage's in trouble then, six months and he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it,  _he_  left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help, that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you never liked his wife, or don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark," he explained with a smile, "Good one, though. Power connection. Tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go. So you were right?"

"I was right? Right about what?" Jane was still processing the lengthy explanation when he popped off with that last bit, so she couldn't quite comprehend what it was she was right about.

"The police don't consult  _amateurs_ ," he explained quite smugly.

"That... was..." she paused for a second to find the right word to describe exactly what that was, "amazing."

The cab was silent for a few moments. Sherlock definitely wasn't expecting Jane to say  _that._

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite..." again she paused, looking for the right word, but the only one she could come up with was, "extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock admitted.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," Sherlock confessed with a slight smile and Jane couldn't help but chuckle in response. Sure, she thought his deductions were amazing, but she could see why people would be annoyed by them.

The rest of the cab ride, which Jane noticed was actually rather long, was spent in a comfortable silence, and eventually, they arrived at the crime scene. Sherlock opened the door and got out of the cab while Jane followed directly behind.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry and me don't get on. Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry  _is_  a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock said, though he actually didn't sound all that shocked. Oh, she couldn't wait to burst his bubble about her sister.

"Harry... is short for Harriet," she said with a smile, walking past Sherlock. He had stopped dead in his tracks, with a clearly surprised look on his face.

"...Harry's your sister..." he said, slightly disappointed in himself.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" She asked, changing the subject.

"Sister!" he exclaimed rather suddenly.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something!" Sherlock said, obviously still mulling over the fact that Harry was a woman and not a man.

"Hello, freak!" A woman shouted to Sherlock. Jane presumed it was meant for him anyway. The woman was standing next to a police car inside of the tape, meaning she must be with the police in some way.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?" It was becoming increasingly clear that this woman really did not care for Sherlock at all. Jane wondered what exactly it was that pissed her off.

"I was invited."

"Why?" She questioned him again.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock explained, rather condescendingly.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally," he said as he lifted the tape and walked onto the crime scene. Jane made it a point to remember her name. No matter how much they didn't get along, it was quite clear that if Jane stuck around, they would have to encounter Sally quite often. "I even know you didn't make it home last night," Sherlock continued after smelling something.

Jane began to follow Sherlock onto the scene, but when she attempted to lift the tape, she was stopped by Sally, obviously attempting to deflect the attention.

"I don't, uh, who's this?" She asked, looking at Jane.

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson," Sherlock explained, gesturing towards Jane. "Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old  _friend,_ " Sherlock introduced Donovan to Jane, but of course, Jane caught onto the tone that Sherlock used when he said 'friend'. It was quite obvious these two were not friends and never were.

"A colleague? How do you get a colleague?" Donovan asked Sherlock with the same condescending tone he had used earlier. "Did she follow you home?"

"Uh, would it be better if I just waited?" Jane asked, not oblivious at all to the tension between the two.

"No," Sherlock replied quickly, lifting the police tape for Jane.

Donovan picked up her walkie and said, "Freak's here. Bringing him and his  _colleague_  in." She said the last bit while eyeing Jane.

Just then, a rather odd looking man exited the building that Jane assumed held the crime scene and dead body.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock said, annoyance lacing every word.

Jane recognised the name from his conversation with Lestrade a little while earlier. He must be from Forensics.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson seemed quite angry that Sherlock was here.

"Quite clear," Sherlock said calmly before adding, "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

And suddenly, Jane understood why other people were less than happy with Sherlock's deductions.

_Didn't he know when to shut up?_

"Ooh... I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

"Whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just  _happened_  to stay over," Sherlock said, walking past the both of them and into the doorway, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Jane couldn't help it; she stood, staring at the three of them with her mouth agape. And her question was answered for her.  _Apparently, he didn't._ Following Sherlock, she hobbled past Anderson and Donovan, refusing to make eye contact with them and instead just looked at the floor. She walked into the building just behind Sherlock and entered a room with several officers and detectives, one of them being Lestrade.

"You'll need to wear one of these," Sherlock told Jane, pointing to one of the powder blue suits that Donovan and Lestrade were wearing.

"Who's this?" Lestrade asked, apparently not remembering her being in the flat earlier.

"She's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I  _said_  she's with me."

As Sherlock said that, Lestrade looked at me in disbelief.

" _Really_? With  _him_?" He asked, directing the question towards Jane.

"Oh, no, not like that. Um, we're just... colleagues."

"...Right..."

Ignoring Lestrade's shocked expression, Jane instead looked to Sherlock, asking, "Aren't you going to put one on?"

Ignoring her question, Sherlock instead asked Lestrade, "So, where are we?"

"Upstairs."

... _Of course._  Jane thought, annoyed.

The three of them made their way to the staircase and Jane looked up. It wrapped around the walls, going up several floors. She looked up at them warily, knowing she  _could_  make it up the stairs, it would just take her longer than everyone else, she just would rather have avoided them if possible. But she kept her complaints to herself and followed Sherlock and Detective Lestrade up the stairs.

"I can give you two minutes," he informed Sherlock.

"May need longer."

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long; some kids found her."

Jane continued to follow them up the stairs, really trying her best to match their pace. And after way too many flights of stairs for her taste, they finally made it to the top floor where the body was. Lestrade and Sherlock's faces were passive and unaffected by the body laying on the floor in front of them. Of course, Jane knew that was because it was an everyday thing for them, so they would be used to it by now. And for a while, Jane was used to it too. In the army, many of the soldiers were dead or nearly dead by the time Jane was able to help, and after a while she had become desensitised to it. But it had been months since she had last seen a dead body, so looking down to the floor now and seeing this young woman, lifeless, when she should have had such a long life ahead of her really hit her. She only let her emotions show for a minute though before pushing them back down like she always did.

"Shut up," Sherlock said suddenly, directing the statement towards Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade just looked over at Jane, his eyes seemingly asking her, ' _How do you put up with this man?'_

Jane just shook her head with a slight smile as Sherlock walked over to the woman's body and began deducing her. She noticed how he seemed to take in every detail; looking from her hands to the word scratched into the wooden floor, and even the clothes and jewellery she was wearing. From where she was she couldn't quite make out exactly what he saw, but she could definitely tell from the look on his face when he found an interesting detail about the woman. Finally, after only a minute or so, Sherlock stood back up from the crouched position he was in.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Not much," Sherlock replied with a smile. Jane knew of course that he was really playing down the amount of information he had gathered.

"She's German," Anderson announced, walking into the room. "Rache," he continued as Sherlock walked over to him, "It's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something."

As Anderson was finishing his statement, Sherlock slammed the door Anderson was standing outside of and sarcastically added, "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked, believing Anderson.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" Jane chimed in. That was the last thing she had expected Sherlock to discover from just looking at the body.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade attempted to ask before being interrupted by Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" he asked.

"Of the message?" she asked, confused.

"Of the body. You're a doctor."

_Oh. Yeah, that made quite a bit more sense._

"We have a while team right outside," Lestrade pointed out.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting  _you_ in here..." Lestrade began before being interrupted by Sherlock again.

"Yes, because you need me," Sherlock pointed out, bluntly.

"...Yes, I do," Lestrade agreed after some hesitation. "God help me."

"Dr. Watson!"

"Hmm?"

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," Lestrade relented as he left the room. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes," Jane heard Lestrade shout over to Anderson as her and Sherlock walked over to the woman's body.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"What am I doing here?"

Whispering, Sherlock responded, "Helping me make a point."

"Yeah, well I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," Jane argued. Though truthfully, she was glad to be working with him.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun."

"...True, I suppose. But there  _is_  a woman lying here dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," he said sarcastically.

Jane responded with a small glare and began to examine the body as Lestrade walked back into the room. She took a look at the woman's neck and wrist, neither of which showed any signs of struggle or external causes. There was no scent of alcohol on the body either, so she hadn't died from alcohol poisoning, nor was her death due to being intoxicated. The only other explanation would be that she had essentially drowned in her own vomit after being rendered unconscious, most likely due to a seizure or drugs.

"Uh, asphyxiation. Probably, anyway. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs," she said, explaining her findings.

"You know what it was, you've read the papers."

"I know. She's the fourth suicide," Jane agreed.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you've got," Lestrade chimed in.

"Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

Jane was confused. There was no suitcase in here, and hadn't been so long as they'd been in there. How had he known there was a suitcase?

Apparently, Lestrade had the same confusion, asking, "Suitcase?"

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock confirmed, though Jane was still unaware as to how he knew she had one. "She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..."

"Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands. So what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she's never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"Brilliant!" Jane gasped, pursing her lips out of embarrassment. She hadn't actually meant to say that out loud. "...Sorry."

"No it's... fine," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asked Sherlock to clarify.

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Not really, Sherlock, no," Jane admitted.

"Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Is it because of her coat?" Jane asked as she once again knelt by the body. Sherlock turned around and looked at her, surprised at her deduction. "I felt it when I was examining the body; it was damp. Hasn't rained in London since last night and she definitely hasn't been dead that long. And even if she had been caught in the London rain, she would have been dry by now." Jane looked up at Sherlock and noticed the surprised look on his face. "Oh, sorry, I just... I was watching you while you were observing the body and making your deductions. You noticed the jacket was wet as well but hadn't mentioned it yet. Figured it had to be relevant. I'll, um, I'll let you explain, sorry."

"No, actually I want to hear the rest of what you noticed. Your spot on so far, go on."

"Oh, um, okay then. I noticed you pulled out her umbrella which was dry so either she didn't care much about the rain, or there was wind strong enough to make it so she couldn't use the umbrella. I also noticed you feel along the underside of her collar, which is also wet, so she probably had it turned up to protect as much of her neck from the rain and wind as she could. You looked at your phone a few moments ago, probably checking the weather of cities within a certain radius to find heavy wind and rain and the only city that matched all the criteria was Cardiff." Sherlock still had a shocked expression on his face, so she must have been right or very close. "...Was I close?"

"My God, there's another one of you," Lestrade exclaimed, looking between Sherlock and Jane, surprised.

"Actually, I'd say you've pretty much covered all of it. There is one more thing though. I chose a travel radius of 2-3 hours based not only on the fact that her coat was still wet, but also because she had a small suitcase, meaning she had only intended to stay one night. If she was any closer to London, she most likely would have returned home that night instead of staying overnight."

"Right. But, Sherlock, there is no suitcase." Jane pointed out.

"Well, she had to have had one. And a mobile phone or an organiser of some sort. Where are they?" Sherlock asked Lestrade. "Also need to find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German," Sherlock said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Of course she was writing Rachel, there's no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Did you figure out this one as well?" Sherlock asked Jane.

"Oh, no I didn't. Was actually wondering how you figured that one out."

"Hmm, shame. You were showing such promise. The back of her right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade attempted to tell Sherlock.

"Say that again," Sherlock requested.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated.

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up off the ground where he had been kneeling.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase!" he yelled as he exited the room and running down the stairs. "Was there a suitcase in this house!?"

"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade yelled down the stairs to Sherlock for the third time.

"But they take the poison themselves! They chew,  _swallow_  the pills themselves! There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!" Sherlock was nearly shouting now, clearly a bit agitated.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And?" Lestrade shouted again at Sherlock who was continuing to descend the stairs.

Sherlock stopped on the landing about a floor down from where Jane and Lestrade stood. "It's murder. All of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're killings. Serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those! There's always something to look forward to!" Sherlock shouted again as he ran down the stairs some more.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade asked, though Jane seemed to understand Sherlock's reasoning.

Stopping on the stairs once again, Sherlock shouted up at Lestrade, "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case!" As Jane was looking down at Sherlock - he was a few floors down now - she noticed that after that sentence, he was still speaking but too quiet for her to hear. Probably trying to work something out for himself, she realised. Though she wanted to know what he was on about. Trying to think of an explanation for the missing case that didn't involve a murderer, though she herself was pretty convinced of Sherlock's theory, she had an idea.

"Maybe she checked into a hotel, left her case there!" She yelled down at Sherlock.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Sherlock stopped talking mid-sentence and seemed to have some sort of epiphany.

"Sherlock what is it?" Lestrade yelled down.

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!"

Jane gasped with realisation. "Pink!"

Lestrade looked at her, confused while Sherlock looked at her almost proudly. She continued, "She colour-coordinates everything! Her shoes, her coat, her lipstick."

"And?" Lestrade asked, still not understanding.

"The suitcase is pink!" both Sherlock and Jane shouted at the same time.

"Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

"Wait, Sherlock, where are you going?" Jane shouted down the stairwell, though apparently he was already gone. Did he really leave her here? By herself? Oh, she was going to kill him. She slowly made her way down the stairs to take off the ridiculous blue suit she was forced to wear and eventually exited the building, muttering angrily the whole time. As she was leaving the crime scene, she realised that she had no idea at all where she was. She spotted Sally Donovan over by where she first met her, and walked over.

"Sorry, where am I?" Jane asked Donovan.

"Brixton."

"Um, do you know where I could get a cab?" She asked hesitantly.

"Try the main road," Sally offered, lifting the police tape for her.

"Thanks," Jane replied with a small, terse smile.

"But you're not his friend. He doesn't have friends," she informed Jane. "So who are you?"

"Oh, I'm.. nobody really. I just met him yesterday," Jane explained.

"Okay, a bit of advice, then. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?" Jane asked, challenging Sally. She hadn't known him for long, and she knew he had his issues socially, but that should be no reason to avoid him. Was there truly a reason?

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. In fact, he gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"And why exactly would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"You know what, no. Okay, no. I'll agree with you that he enjoys this. He enjoys solving crimes and the puzzles that come along with it. I can tell that after only knowing him for about 24 hours or so. But does it matter? No matter what his intentions are, he puts killers away and saves lives because he has skills that no one else here does. How many serial killers would still be out there if it wasn't for his help? He has his quirks and he has his flaws but he would never become a murderer. He's a good man. I've known him a day and I can see that. How can you not?" Honestly, Jane hadn't meant to go off on Donovan like that, but she was so fed up with this woman.

"Alright well, if your instincts are wrong and mine are right, don't say I didn't warn you."

Jane just shook her head as she walked away from the crime scene, hopefully towards the main road. She was still angry at Sherlock for leaving her there, though and continued to curse his name as she walked away, only to hear the telephone in the phone booth to her right start ringing.

_That's odd,_ she thought as she walked away.

 


	3. The Study in Pink Pt 3

After a few minutes, Jane eventually made it to what she assumed was the main road. It was late, but there were still plenty of people walking up and down the lively sidewalk, so Jane figured it wouldn't be too difficult to find a taxi. However, that theory was clearly wrong as the third taxi she attempted to hail drove straight by her. She started to wonder how Sherlock seemed to be able to get a taxi so quickly, and then as she remembered why she was having to get a taxi on her own in the first place, she instantly became aggravated again. She started walking further down the street, slowly giving up any hope of getting home anytime soon, when she heard another phone ring. This time, the phone came from inside a store to the left of her. She looked over at the ringing phone and watched as it stopped ringing as soon as one of the store's employees reached it. She thought it was odd and began to wonder if these calls were meant for her. She quickly dismissed the thought, though. There was no way these were meant for her. She had her mobile phone with her after all; if someone wanted to get ahold of her they could easily just call her. Shaking her head, she walked past the store and farther down the road, passing another telephone booth which began to ring. She stopped and looked at the booth suspiciously, looked around to make sure she wasn't being watched, and hesitantly stepped inside to answer the phone.

Lifting the phone off of the receiver, she asked, "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left," said a man's voice. "Do you see it?"

Jane hesitated a moment before replying, "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?"

Jane looked over to the left, attempting to find what the man was referring to. She then spotted the camera which was moving to get her attention.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch," the man said simply as the camera moved. "There is another camera on the building opposite to you, do you see it?"

Jane looked up to where he was referring and confirmed, "Mmm-hmm."

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right."

Craning her head to her right, Jane saw the camera he was referring to.

"How are you doing this?" Jane asked. She could feel the adrenaline beginning to enter her bloodstream. Her heart was beginning to race and her breaths became quick and shallow.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson," the man requested as a sleek black car pulled up to the phone booth she was in. "I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

A man exited the driver's seat of the car and opened the door she was expected to enter. She took a deep breath to calm herself and put on a brave face before exiting the phone booth, and entering the car. In the seat next to her was a woman doing something rather important, or so it seemed to Jane anyway, on her phone.

"Hello," Jane greeted the woman.

"Hi," she responded with a smile.

"What's your name then?" She asked, not really expecting any sort of truthful answer, but the woman seemed kind enough.

"Uh... Anthea."

"That's not your real name, is it?"

"No."

"I'm Jane."

"Yes, I know."

Jane just sighed. Of course she knew. She was involved in her kidnapping after all.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" Jane was trying to figure it out by looking out the windows but she truly had no idea.

'Anthea' glanced up from her phone to look over at Jane. "None at all... Jane."

"Okay..."

It was only a few minutes after that when the car pulled into a large, dark warehouse. The car stopped and Jane got out. Ahead of her was a man in an expensive looking suit leaning on an umbrella with a chair sitting out in front of him. Jane walked towards the man who had a familiar air about him. Had she met him before?

"Have a seat Jane," the man told her, pointing his umbrella at the chair.

"You know, I've got a phone. This is very clever and all but uh... you could just phone me. On my phone." Jane looked at the man who seemed to be trying very hard to look threatening but was not succeeding.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," Jane told the man, defiantly.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man laughed. "Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" How much did this man know about her and her past? And what did he want with her? "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Now that was the last thing she was expecting to come out of his mouth. Sherlock?

"I don't have one, really. I barely know him. I met him just yesterday."

"Mmmm. And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Excuse me? You're implying, what, that I'm pregnant? That we're seeing each other? I think it would be difficult for that to be true when I only met him yesterday!" Jane was so irritated at this man for even implying any of those things. What would it matter to him, anyhow? "Who are you anyway?"

"An interested party."

"Why the hell would you be interested in Sherlock? I can sure as hell guess that you're not friends."

"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock is capable of having."

"And what  _exactly_  is that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?" She asked with disbelief.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Looking around the room, Jane replied sarcastically, "Well, thank God you're above all that."

Just then, Jane's phone chimed. She had a text.

**Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH**

_Really Sherlock?_  She was actually quite irritated at this point. If he hadn't abandoned her at the crime scene, she would have been back at Baker Street already.  _Arse._

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the man said with sarcasm.

"Not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Now, I could be wrong, but I  _think_  that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

"If you do move into 221B Baker Street I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?" Jane asked, suspicious.

"Because you're not a wealthy woman."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information," the man told her with a smile. He seemed to think she was going to take the deal. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with." And there were the implications again. Seriously? "Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" She asked him with a glare.

"I worry about him. Constantly." Based on the rest of the conversation, that phrase seemed rather untrue, but Jane couldn't help but feel that there was some truth in that statement. Did this man really worry about Sherlock? Why? Were they related?

"That's nice of you," Jane replied with a look of distrust on her face.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

Jane's phone chimed again and she took it out of her pocket as she looked at this man. He wasn't old enough to be Sherlock's father, and it was very unlikely that Sherlock had any sort of relationship with extended family. She remembered how the man had a familiar air to him when she first saw him, which led her to believe that he was Sherlock's brother. Could he be?

**If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**

"No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

The man chuckled as he looked at her, "You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man pulled a notebook from his coat. "'Trust issues,' it says here."

Jane looked at it, for a moment not recognising where it came from, but then she remembered.

"Why do you have that?" Jane asked, her eyes going wide.

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind do make friends easily."

"Are we done?" Jane asked, her teeth gritting together.

"You tell me."

Jane looked at the man for a moment before turning around and walking back towards the car.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your right hand that's not going to happen."

Jane stopped. Her hand? What about it?

"Excuse me?"

"Show me."

Shifting her cane to her left hand, she hesitantly held out her left as the man walked towards her. He went to grab it, but as soon as he got close, she pulled away. "Don't," she warned.

The man gave her a look that seemed to communicate to her the position she was in. She relented, giving him her hand, palm down. He inspected it for a moment before saying, "Remarkable."

"What is?" She asked as she shifted her cane back into her right hand.

"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" she asked tersely.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your right hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service." Images flashed again in her mind of her time in Afghanistan. She felt a surge of adrenaline and her body reacted accordingly. She closed her eyes for a moment in an attempt to compose herself. She would not lose it in front of this man. She needed to stay strong.

"Who the hell are you?" She asked, her voice shaking and tears stinging her eyes, though she was sure she knew the answer. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson... you miss it."

A single tear managed to escape and she wiped it off of her face quickly while glaring at the man.

"Welcome back," he whispered before walking away. "Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson."

Her phone chimed once more as the man continued walking away, swinging his umbrella.

_Oh, I have chosen a side_.

She stood there for a moment, not exactly sure what to do. As Jane was pulling out her phone to check Sherlock's text, 'Anthea' walked up behind her and said, "I'm to take you home."

**Could be dangerous. SH**

"Address?" Anthea asked Jane.

Jane walked towards the car and said, "Um, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."

* * *

Jane walked into the dodgy room she had been calling home for the last couple months. She walked over to the desk drawers and pulled out her gun, which she made sure was loaded before quickly tucking it in her pants and leaving the room.

* * *

Eventually, Jane, Anthea, and the man driving the car pulled up to 221B Baker Street. As the car stopped, Jane unbuckled her seatbelt and asked Anthea, "Listen, any chance you could not tell your boss this is where I went?"

She looked at Jane and nodded. "Sure."

"You've already told him, haven't you?"

"Yeah."

"Fantastic..." she whispered as she got out of the car.

Jane walked up to the door of the flat before realising she didn't have a way to get in if it was locked, so she knocked on the door hoping either Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock would hear her. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and let her in a moment later, so Jane went up the stairs and opened the door to the flat. When she walked in, she saw Sherlock laying on the couch.

"What are you doing?" She asked, suspicious.

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock replied, lifting his sleeve to reveal not one but  _three_  nicotine patches on his arm. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for breathing, though."

Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing! Breathing's boring."

"Why in the world are you using three patches?" Jane asked, walking up to Sherlock.

"It's a three-patch problem," Sherlock says as he closed his eyes and put his hands together below his chin.

"Well, you asked me to come. I assume it's important?"

"Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

Was he serious?

"My... phone?"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that my number will be recognised, it's on the website."

"Okay, but Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of London!" Jane whisper-yelled.

"There was no hurry."

Jane sighed but relented, taking her phone out and putting it into Sherlock's now outstretched hand. "So what's this about? The case?"

"Her case..."

"Her suitcase?"

"The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"Yes, got that. Suitcase would be pink, easier to find. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text," he said as he handed her back her phone.

"You brought me here... to send a text?"

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

Jane huffed, but walked over to Sherlock to grab her phone before checking out the window to make sure Anthea wasn't still sitting in the car outside.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, noticing what she was doing.

"Just met a  _friend_  of yours."

"A friend?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"An enemy."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Well, your arch-enemy. According to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No..."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Who is he? Your brother?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever- Wait. What did you say?"

"So he  _is_  your brother, then?" Jane asked smugly.

"How'd you figure that one out?" Sherlock asked her while looking at her quizzically.

"Familial resemblance. A dramatic flair. Took me to a warehouse, you know."

"Sounds like something Mycroft would do."

"So, that's his name? Mycroft?"

"Yes. Moving on. On my desk, the number!"

Jane looked at Sherlock before shrugging and walking over to his desk and locating the piece of paper with a phone number on it. Jane opened her phone, going to her messages and creating a new text.

"Jennifer Wilson. That... that was the dead woman's name."

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes," she said, annoyed.

"Have you done it?"

"Almost done, hang on!"

"These words exactly. 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'" Sherlock got out of his chair and walked over to the kitchen table. "Type and send it. Quickly." Walking back to his chair, now holding a pink suitcase, he asked, "Have you sent it yet?"

"Yes I did," Jane replied, looking down at the now open suitcase in front of Sherlock. "Wait, that's the pink lady's case... That's Jennifer Wilson's case!"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock replied before pausing for a moment and continuing, "Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Because I'd like to think that I know you better than to believe that. Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

He gave her a smile before repositioning himself on his chair and replying, "Now and then yes."

Jane walked over to the red chair opposite Sherlock's, sat down, and asked, "How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Around where we found the body?"

"Yes. The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. The moment he noticed he still had it, wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

She looked at him angrily and whacked his leg with her cane. "Ow! What was that for?"

"You left me at a crime scene  _alone_  so you could go searching for a damn suitcase?!" Jane asked angrily, raising her voice slightly to better get her point across as she whacked him with her cane again.

"Ow! Okay, you know what, enough," Sherlock said as he took the cane from Jane and put it safely out of her reach. Jane was still glaring at him and she let out a little huff. "I'll make sure to inform you when I intend to leave a crime scene in the future. But Jane, look at the case. What's missing?"

She sighed but leaned forward to inspect the case. Looking through the woman's items, nothing really stood out to Jane as something that would be missing. She sighed, looked at Sherlock and asked, "Look, obviously you know what's missing, why don't you just tell me?"

"Because I know you can figure it out. Think. What do we know about the woman so far?"

"Okay, um, well obviously her favorite color is pink, which we've already established. She's some sort of professional woman judging by the clothes she was wearing. She's had a string of affairs. She came from Cardiff for the night. Um..." Jane sat there staring at the case with her hands together in front of her face while she thought about what could possibly be missing. "Her phone number is sitting on your desk..." She paused for a moment before suddenly realising what it was that was missing. "Wait! Her phone! Where's her mobile phone? If she had lovers she wouldn't have left it in Cardiff where her husband could find texts to her lovers. She would have brought it with her. It wasn't on her body and it wasn't with the case which means it's probably..." she stopped for a moment as she realised exactly who had the phone and who she had just texted. Jane pursed her lips and looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, did I just text a murderer?!"

Before Sherlock could reply, Jane's phone began to ring. Both she and Sherlock looked over at her phone and Jane picked it up to look at who was calling.

**Withheld Calling**

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..." Sherlock paused for a moment. "Would panic," he continued as he slammed the suitcase shut, rose from his chair, grabbed his coat, and walked hurriedly towards the door.

"Did you talk to the police?" Jane asked him.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So then why are you talking to me?"

"Wanted to see if you could figure it out. Also, Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So, what, I'm filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "Well?" He asked as he was putting on his coat.

"Well, what?"

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly..."

"Oh, I'm coming with you, am I?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so..."

Sherlock put on his scarf as Jane sat there and smirked at his comment before going to grab her cane from beside her. She remembered, though, after she realised it wasn't there, that Sherlock had taken it from her for hitting him with it. She glanced over to Sherlock's chair and saw it perched on the side. With a small grunt, she used her chair to balance herself while she attempted to grab it. But before she got to it, Sherlock was already there with it in his hand and offered it to Jane.

"Thanks," She said to Sherlock with a small smile.

He cleared his throat before replying, "It's no problem. Shall we go?"

Sherlock began to walk towards the door and Jane followed him. Sherlock hadn't said exactly where they were going, but Jane was certain she knew: 22 Northumberland Street.

They exited the flat and crossed the street before Jane asked Sherlock, "Do you really think he's stupid enough to go to Northumberland Street?"

"No, I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock said, his excitement evident in his voice. "I love the brilliant ones. They're all so desperate to get caught."

"Why?"

"Appreciation; applause; at long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius Jane, it needs an audience. This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"Are you asking me? Or are you just thinking out loud? Because I have no clue."

"Haven't the faintest either. Hungry?"

As he replied to Jane, Sherlock veered off to his right and into a restaurant Jane noticed was called 'Angelo's'. She had never been, but it seemed like a cute and quaint Italian restaurant. As they entered, a man gestured to an open table next to a large window and the front door.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said to the man as both she and Sherlock went to sit down. "22 Northumberland Street," Sherlock said continued, "Keep your eyes on it."

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell, is he? He'd have to be mad."

"He has killed four people..."

"I suppose that's true."

Soon after Jane said that, a large, bearded man came walking over to the table.

"Sherlock!" He said, shaking his hand. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date."

Sherlock, not at all fazed my the man's words, looked at Jane and asked, "Do you want to eat?"

Jane, though, felt the need to correct the man. "Oh, um, I'm not his date," she told him.

Seemingly ignoring what she said, the man who she assumed was Angelo, replied, "This man got me off a murder charge."

Angelo reached out to shake Jane's hand as Sherlock explained, "This is Angelo. Three years ago I proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock corrected. "Anything happening opposite?" Sherlock asked Angelo.

"Nothing," he told Sherlock. Directing his attention once again to Jane, he continued, "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'll go get a candle for the table. More romantic!"

Before Jane could object, Angelo had already walked away to fetch the candle.

"You may as well eat, we might have a long wait," Sherlock told Jane while looking out the window.

She looked down at the menu as Angelo walked back into the room holding a candle in one hand and a lighter in the other. He set down a small tea candle in a holder that was already lit. Jane looked down at it then back up at Angelo.

"Thanks," she said awkwardly, not really feeling all that appreciative of the gesture.

Sherlock was still watching out the window so Jane picked up her menu and began to browse it again. She noticed, though, that Sherlock wasn't looking at his menu at all. Was he not going to eat?

"You know, people don't have arch enemies," Jane began. She paused for a second, waiting for Sherlock's reply, but he wasn't paying much attention to what she was saying. It took him a moment to register that she was speaking to him.

"Sorry?" Sherlock asked, not having heard what she said.

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a but dull." Sherlock was paying some attention to the conversation now, though his gaze was still set on 22 Northumberland Street. "What do real people have, then, in their real lives?" He asked, looking at her for a moment.

"Friends? People they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying... dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend then?" Jane asked him, curious as to what his answer would be.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Hmm. Do you have a boyfriend then? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you've got a boyfriend, then?"

"No," Sherlock replied quickly.

"Right. Okay. We're in the same situation then," Jane replied as Sherlock looked at her quizzically.

"Jane, um, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered, I'm not really looking for any-" Jane interrupted Sherlock's rambling with a laugh.

"No, um, I didn't mean it that way, honest. Was just trying to get to know you, I guess. I mean if we're meant to be living together, I feel like that's something we should know about each other," she replied, still chuckling at his earlier response.

"Oh, well, good. Okay then." Sherlock paused for a moment before nodding at the window and continuing, "Look across the street. Taxi. It's stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"So that's him?"

"Don't stare."

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare," Sherlock said as he quickly rose from his seat, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out of the door. Jane was right behind him, grabbing her coat and following him out of the restaurant.

As she went out behind him, she noticed Sherlock staring into the cab while the passenger stared right back and the cab pulled away from 22 Northumberland. Jane took note of the cab number, having a feeling they may need it later. Suddenly, Sherlock broke into a sprint to follow the cab and nearly got hit by a car in the process. Jane followed right behind him, having to jump over the hood of the car to do so.

"Sorry!" She yelled back at whoever was driving the car as she sprinted away.

She followed Sherlock down the street a bit before he stopped.

"I've got the cab number," she told him, panting slightly.

"Good for you," he said, putting his head between his hands and closing his eyes. Then he began to mumble almost incoherently, but Jane could barely hear him. "Right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Sherlock seemed to have some sort of epiphany before speeding off again, leaving Jane to follow behind him. Sherlock turned down an alleyway, pushing a man out of his path in the process.

Once again, Jane apologised for Sherlock. "Sorry!" she yelled back at the man as she continued running. Sherlock took a sharp turn into a building and started running up a very tall set of stairs. Jane groaned at the route they were taking but followed him up nonetheless. After getting up the stairs, they burst into a room containing yet  _another_  staircase for them to climb. Jane's breathing became more ragged, but she pushed herself up the stairs, not wanting to fall behind.

"Come on Jane!" Sherlock called down to her.

At the top of the spiral staircase, a door led them outside onto a rooftop. Sherlock spotted yet  _another_  spiral staircase, though this time it was leading down, ran over to it, and began descending the stairs. The short set of stairs ended on a platform slightly above the rooftop of another building. Sherlock leapt over the railing of the platform and landed on the roof, leaving Jane to follow. By this point, Jane was seriously starting to question the route he was taking, presumably to catch the taxi though she couldn't be sure as he never specified, but she knew that if she didn't follow him she would once again be left alone with no clue as to where she was, so she kept running. Sherlock then leapt over a gap between buildings without hesitation. Jane went to follow, but noticed how large the gap was and stopped. She looked down at the alley and swallowed, her right hand was beginning to shake, and her already fast-beating heart beat even quicker as she looked at how high up she was. Sherlock didn't know this, but Jane was absolutely terrified of heights and the thought of leaping over this alleyway onto another rooftop was petrifying to her.

Sherlock noticed her hesitation and paused for a moment while looking back at her. "Come on Jane, we're losing him!"

She hesitated briefly again before gathering her courage, taking several steps back, and launching herself over the gap. She landed clumsily on the other rooftop and stumbled for a second before Sherlock grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Sherlock wasted no time in sprinting off again, so Jane took a quick breath and shook her head before following. Sherlock led the both of them down yet another staircase and they finally reached the ground level once again. They continued to sprint down alleyway after alleyway in an attempt to catch the taxi. However, by the time the got to the street, the taxi was just passing them.

"Oh! This way!" Sherlock called back to Jane while turning to his right.

Jane continued to follow him in this way for several more blocks. Finally, after several minutes of sprinting, Sherlock burst out into the street, directly in front of the taxi. The driver slammed on his brakes and Sherlock pulled out a police badge that Jane had no idea he had, and yelled, "Police! Open her up!"

He opened the back door of the taxi to a rather frightened looking young man.

"No," Sherlock said, "Teeth, tan. What, Californian?" Looking down at the man's luggage, Sherlock continued, "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived. Ah, probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" The man from California asked.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, once again flashing him his police badge. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah."

"Welcome to London," Sherlock said while walking away.

"Um, any problems just let us know," Jane told the man before shutting the door and following Sherlock. "So, what," she began, now talking to Sherlock, "just a cab that happened to slow down?"

"Basically," Sherlock agreed.

"Not the murderer?"

"Not the murderer, no."

Taking the badge out of Sherlock's hand, Jane asked, "Where'd you get that?" She looked further at the badge and saw who it belonged to. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

Jane sighed and then looked down the street where the cab had just driven off. And suddenly, she had figured it out. Sherlock's earlier question replayed in her mind:

_"Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

"Sherlock!" She began with a gasp, "It's the cab driver! The murderer is the cabbie! It all makes sense! 'Who do we trust even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?' We thought it was the passenger of the cab, but he had a solid alibi, wasn't even in the country. We never even suspected the driver, not for a moment. Why else would the cab stop in front of 22 Northumberland? You even said it yourself, the murderer had to have a car! Jennifer Wilson left her case in a car, she left it in the taxi. She wasn't abducted forcefully, that's why there were no witnesses. She  _willingly_  got in the car. It  _has_  to be the cab driver. Which means we just let the murderer get away."


	4. The Study in Pink Pt 4

After Jane's realisation, the two began to walk back to Baker Street. The walk was quite long this time due to the lengthy car chase. It was silent at first, with both of them sulking a bit.

Wanting to break the silence, Jane asked Sherlock, "Why didn't we go back to the restaurant?"

"They can keep an eye out. But I honestly doubt the killer would back there, anyway."

"That's true."

They walked for a few more minutes in silence. Jane would occasionally steal glances at Sherlock, who seemed to be deep in thought, barely paying attention to anything going on around him. She hoped he was paying attention to where he was going, though, because she had no idea how to get back to Baker Street. And her hopes were confirmed a few seconds later as the pair of them turned down Baker Street, though 221B was still a few blocks away, at least Jane knew they were on the right road.

As they neared the flat, Jane broke the silence again and asked Sherlock, "When we were chasing the taxi, you took the strangest, most out of the way route to catch it. Why?"

"Well, clearly we couldn't have just trailed behind it. I had to find a route that would make up for the difference in speed."

"No, I understand that. But the rooftop? Jumping across buildings? Was that all really necessary?"

The pair were walking up to the door now.

"Oh, I was just proving a point," Sherlock said as he unlocked the door.

Jane's brows furrowed in confusion. "What point?" she asked.

Instead of replying, Sherlock simply nodded to their right. Jane turned her head to the right to see Angelo standing there... holding her cane.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled in as he opened the door. "Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs!"

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo began. "He said you forgot this."

"Oh, um, th-thank you," Jane stuttered, suddenly at a loss for words as she took the cane from Angelo.

She looked down at the cane in her hands for a moment, tears collecting in her eyes before she turned towards Sherlock who had been watching the exchange smugly. She launched herself at him, dropping her cane in the process, and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. Sherlock stiffened slightly, unsure of how to handle the situation, before lightly placing his right hand on her back.

"Thank you," Jane said to him sincerely.

Sherlock patted her back hesitantly with his right hand before Jane let go. She took a step back and turned to see that Angelo had already left before she crouched down to grab her cane and followed Sherlock inside.

Upon hearing them enter, Mrs. Hudson rushed out of her downstairs flat with tears in her eyes.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked, afraid.

Sherlock's brows furrowed in confusion. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Upstairs," she replied shakily.

Not knowing what to expect upstairs after having an almost run-in with a murderer, Sherlock and Jane rushed up the stairs into their flat. Jane nearly sighed in relief upon finding Lestrade sitting in Sherlock's armchair. She set down the cane that she was holding and had it lean against the wall as she took in the rest of the scene in front of her. She was slightly concerned with the police searching through Sherlock's belongings, but she was sure there was a good reason for it. Sherlock had a very different reaction to the scene in front of him, however.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked Lestrade angrily as he walked towards where he was sitting.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid," Lestrade replied with a scoff.

"You can't just break into my flat!"

"You can't withhold evidence. And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?"

"It's a drugs bust!" Lestrade replied slightly smug.

_A drugs bust?_

"Seriously? Sherlock? A junkie? Have you met him?" Jane interjected, incredulous of the outlandish accusation.

Sherlock turned and gave Jane a pointed look, telling her to be quiet. "Jane."

Jane ignored the look, though, and continued, "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"Jane you probably want to shut up now."

"Yeah but come on," she said, looking at Sherlock and finally registering the pointed gaze he was giving her.

Her expression shifted from one of doubt to one of surprise and slight anger.

"No," she said with surprise lacing her voice.

"What?"

" _You_?" Jane asked, still incredulous at the new development. She whacked him on his arm and looked at him disapprovingly.

"Ow!" Sherlock said, more from shock than actual pain. "Again with the hitting?!"

"It's not like you don't deserve it!"

"Oh, Shut up," Sherlock replied. Then he directed his anger at Lestrade again, "I'm not your sniffer dog!"

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade replied, nodding towards Anderson who was standing in the kitchen.

Anderson peered around the door to wave sarcastically to Sherlock.

"What? A-Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?!"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson replied, venom lacing his every word.

"They all did," Lestrade interjected. "They're not, strictly speaking, on the drug squad, but they're very keen."

Donovan, who was apparently also there but had been previously out of sight in the kitchen, began walking towards Sherlock with a jar in her hand.

"Are these human eyes?" she asked him with disgust.

"Put those back!"

"They were in the microwave!"

"It's an experiment!"

Jane was watching the exchange between Sherlock and Scotland Yard's detectives with a smirk on her face, amused by the situation. Sherlock, however, was clearly getting more flustered by the second, much to Jane's amusement.

"Keep looking guys," Lestrade announced, still seated in Sherlock's chair. "Or," he directed his words towards Sherlock now, "You could help us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish."

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do  _not_  go off on your own. Clear?"

"So, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"Well, it stops being pretend if they find anything."

"I am clean!"

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock replied, lifting his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch on his arm.

"Neither do I," Lestrade responded as he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch of his own. "So let's work together," Lestrade continued as both men put their sleeves back in the proper position. "We've found Rachel."

"Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Nevermind that," Anderson interrupted. "We found the case. According to  _someone_ , the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, do your research," Sherlock replied mockingly. He then turned his attention back to Lestrade saying, "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her,  _I_  need to question her."

"She's dead."

"Excellent. How and when, why? Is there a connection? There  _has_  to be!"

"Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for 14 years.  _Technically_  she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, 14 years ago."

"No, that's... That's not right. How...? Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath, I'm seeing it now," Anderson interrupted again.

"No, Anderson, Sherlock didn't mean it like that. Sure, she would have thought of her, but why would she scratch her name into the floorboards with her fingernails as she was dying? That's not just her final thought, she was trying to leave a message. But why her name?" Jane interjected.

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed.

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Maybe he used the death of her daughter to convince her to kill herself. I mean, that still doesn't really explain why she left her name like she did, but who knows?"

"Yeah, but that was  _ages_  ago, why would she still be upset?" Sherlock asked, flustered, while pacing around the room and looking at Jane.

Jane looked at him, silently conveying the fact that he said something wrong. Everyone else had stopped what they were doing and had fallen silent as well. Sherlock looked around the room awkwardly and then back to Jane.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"Bit not good, yeah," Jane confirmed.

Sherlock shook off the awkward silence and asked Jane intensely, "If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

She sighed before answering him. "Please, God, let me live."

"Oh, come on! Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to," Jane replied defiantly.

Detecting the hurt look that was evident on Jane's face, Sherlock paused a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly, almost apologetically before continuing.

"Look, Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. Like you said, Jane, she's trying to tell us something."

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to come upstairs to their flat.

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock," she told him, exasperated.

"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock said dismissively. "Go away."

Jane was suspicious at the taxi when Mrs. Hudson first announced it. She was pretty sure that Sherlock hadn't ordered a taxi, but had decided to shrug it off. Until Sherlock said he hadn't ordered one anyway. Sherlock was too deep in thought trying to decode the message Jennifer Wilson had left to fully register what was happening. The murderer was outside of their flat, in his taxi, and Jane was sure of it. How they figured out where they lived, she didn't know, but either way, he had found them.

"Oh, dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," Jane told her, still distracted by the fact that the killer was sitting outside of their flat.

"But they're just for my hip! They're herbal soothers!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to go downstairs and let the cabbie know there's been a mistake. If Sherlock asks where I went will you let him know?"

"Of course, dear."

Jane nodded and gave a slight smile to Mrs. Hudson before walking out the door and down the stairs to the cab. The cabbie, an inconspicuous looking older man, was standing outside of the passenger side door.

"You're not Sherlock Holmes," he commented when he saw her.

"No, I'm not. I'm Jane Watson, his.." she hesitated a moment, trying to figure out what she should call herself. "work partner, friend, whatever the hell you want to call me. And I happen to know that he didn't order a taxi. I also know that you're the cabbie who stopped outside of Northumberland Street. So why are you here?"

"No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer, eh?"

"Oh? Is this a confession then?"

"Not quite," he said as he approached Jane. "I was planning on Sherlock but," he paused as he looked her up and down, "you'll do, I suppose."

He took a few more steps towards her until they were nearly touching. She felt something cold on her side, and without even looking down she could guess what it was. But even though she was sure that it was, in fact, a gun pressed up against her side, she had to look down and confirm. As soon as she saw the gun in the cabbie's hand, her breath hitched.

"Get in," he said menacingly as he guided her to one of the back doors of the cab.

She sat down inside the cab as the driver shut the door behind her and walked around to the driver's side of the car. As he started the car and pulled away from the street, she could only hope that Sherlock would figure out who she was with... and how to find her.

* * *

As they pulled up to their destination, Jane asked the cabbie, "Where are we?"

"Does it matter? Not like you're going to leave here anyway Ms. Watson." Jane shuddered at the implication.

"Ok, then  _why_  are we here?"

"It's open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"Right, how shocking," Jane said sarcastically.

The cabbie exited the cab and Jane tried to do the same, only to find out that she couldn't open the door from the inside. He walked around to where she was seated and opened the door for her as she stepped out cautiously, taking in her surroundings. In front of her were two large, identical buildings made of what appeared to be some sort of light coloured stone. The cabbie resumed his spot by her side with his gun pressed against her as they made their way into the building on the right. Inside the building, many of the lights were turned off with the exception of those occupied by the cleaners. The halls were dark, but the cabbie knew exactly where he was going as he led her into a dark room. He turned on the lights to reveal that the room was actually a very large classroom or study room.

"Look at this room. Remember it. You're gonna die in 'ere," the cabbie said as he released his hold on her.

She was beginning to become frightened, but she wouldn't let it show. Instead, a false confidence replaced the fear.

"No, I'm not," she told the man, hoping he didn't see through her.

"That's what they all say. Shall we talk?" he asked while gesturing to some chairs.

Jane pulled a chair up opposite the one the cabbie sat in and sat down slowly.

"Pretty risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policeman. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you," Jane began, still feigning confidence.

"You call that a risk? Nah. This is a risk," he said, reaching down into his pockets to pull out a small bottle with one pill inside. "Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this," he said as he began pulling out an identical bottle with an identical pill from his other pocket, placing it on the table next to the original one. "Weren't expecting that, were ya? Oh, you're gonna love this."

"I am, am I?"

"That website of Sherlock's, his fan told me about it."

"His fan?" she asked, confused.

"He's brilliant. A proper genius. The Science of Deduction, I'm sure you've seen it. Now, that is proper thinking. I'm sure, being his partner, he's taught you some of his techniques. So between you and me sitting here, why can't people just think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just  _think_?"

She looked at the man, attempting to analyse and deduce him like Sherlock would. She may be his partner, but she had only been working with him a few hours, not nearly enough time to master 'The Science of Deduction' as Sherlock had so aptly phrased it. The only thing she really knew about the man was that he had a family, but that was because of the picture of his children that was proudly displayed in his cab.

"So, what, you're trying to say that you're a proper genius too? Is that it?"

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you  _ever_  know."

"There's two bottles. Why?"

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"Both bottles are exactly the same."

"In every way."

"And I assume you know which bottle is the good one then?"

"Of course  _I_  know. But it wouldn't be a game if  _you_  knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why? I have no way of figuring out which is which."

"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, we take our medicine. I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Ms. Watson?"

"You gave the rest of them a choice as well?"

The cabbie nodded. "And now, I'm giving you one. Take your time, get yourself together. I want your best game."

"This isn't a game. There's no way of knowing which is the good pill and which is bad. This is chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Ms. Watson, it's chess. It's a game of chess with one move and one survivor. And this... this is the move," he said as he pushed the bottle on her right towards her. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

Jane studied the two bottles in front of her. There was nothing distinguishable about the two, and the cabbie was giving no signs of which one he gave her. She was certain that Sherlock would have noticed her missing by now, she just wasn't sure if he would know where to find her. This led her back to what Sherlock was thinking about in the flat. Why Rachel? Why would she leave that note for the police to find? Did she know he had her phone? Maybe Rachel was some sort of password for something. And then it all clicked. Jennifer Wilson had a smartphone. Smartphones have trackers on them in case they're lost or stolen. Jennifer Wilson  _knew_  the cabbie still had her phone, so in her last moments, she left the password of the account she used for the tracker. The email address was most likely on her luggage tag on the suitcase. If that was all true, Sherlock could easily find her. As long as he figured it out, and she was sure he had, Sherlock could track them to her location. All she had to do was take her time.

"You ready yet, Ms. Watson? Ready to play?"

"Play what? Like I said, this is just chance."

"You're playing  _me_. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff? Four people in a row? It's not chance."

"It's  _luck_."

"It's genius! I know how people think. I know how people think  _I_ think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid. Even you, even your partner. Or, maybe, God just loves me."

"If you wanted Sherlock, why did you take me?"

"Maybe you're bait."

"No, that's not true. You only have one pill in each bottle. If you wanted me  _and_ Sherlock to play the 'game', you would have more pills. Not to mention, I'm sure it was your employer who wanted Sherlock. I'm assuming he's the 'fan' you were referring to. He wouldn't be very happy with you if Sherlock isn't included, would he?"

"Who's to say I don't have more pills?" He asked confidently.

"Those bottles are pretty small. Small enough to hold maybe four or five pills. This would be the fifth one. I doubt your employer would give you too many at one time, so I'm willing to bet this is your last one until he gives you more. Why waste it on me?"

"Ah, you're clever, ain't ya?"

"I like to think so."

"Well, I'm clever too, ya know. And I can tell you're just buying time, hoping Mr. Holmes will come save ya. Well, you're out of time. Choose."

"You risked your life to kill four strangers. Why?" Jane asked in a futile attempt to give herself more time.

"I said  _choose,_ " the cabbie said, malice dripping from his words.

Jane took the bottle in closest to her and opened it, dropping the pill into her left hand. Her tremor was back in her right hand, and she cursed it for choosing this moment to return. She was trying her best to hide her fear, but there was no hiding that.

"One last question. I mean, if I'm going to die like you say I will. A dying woman's last question."

"Fine," he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Who hired you? What's his name?"

"Why?"

"If I die, I'll be taking this information to the grave. No one will know. I'm just... curious."

The cabbie was scrutinising her face intensely. His eyes were still narrowed and his mouth had slipped into a frown.

"Alright, fine. But as soon as I tell ya, we take the pills. Got it?" the cabbie explained as he took the pill out of his bottle. "His name is... Moriarty. Time's up, Ms. Watson," he said with a smirk.

Jane brought the pill up to her mouth, using her left hand in an attempt to hide her fear. She looked directly at the cabbie as she opened her mouth and prepared to place the pill on her tongue. As she was looking at him, though, a strange red light appeared on his chest and head. Jane's brows furrowed as she hesitated for a brief moment. The cabbie noticed her hesitation and opened his mouth to say something. But before he could, she heard two gunshots and watched as they both pierced the cab driver's body. A piercing scream escaped her mouth before she could stop herself and the pill she was holding fell to the ground. She scrambled out of her chair with her right hand covering her mouth and her eyes agape. Her breathing became shallower with every breath before they turned into sobs. Images of Afghanistan played through her mind as she crumpled to the floor in a mess of sobs. She squeezed her eyes shut, placed her head between her knees, and covered her head with her hands. Suddenly, the doors to the room slammed open and she couldn't hold back the scream that escaped her mouth once again as her first instinct was to believe it was the shooter. She quickly looked up at the entrance to the classroom and saw Sherlock along with many of the officers and detectives that had been in their flat earlier that day. She was relieved that it was them who burst in the doors instead of whoever had killed the cab driver, but that didn't stop her sobs from returning. She was nearly hyperventilating now, having a panic attack triggered by the gunshots.

"Jane?" Sherlock asked her, concern lacing his voice as he approached her position on the ground.

Jane couldn't reply; her breathing wasn't showing any signs of slowing down, and she was afraid to open her eyes again and see the scene unfolding around her.

"Jane?" Sherlock asked again, becoming even more concerned.

Jane felt his hands on her arms in an attempt to comfort her. All she could do was shake her head. She wasn't sure what was going on, since her eyes were shut, but she could feel officers' eyes on her, watching her and Sherlock. She felt his hands move up to the sides of her face, lifting it so her face was only a few inches in front of his. At this gesture, she finally opened her eyes and found herself looking directly into Sherlock's ice blue ones.

"Jane, you need to calm down. You're having a panic attack, though I'm sure you figured that out. If you keep this up, you're going to make yourself pass out. Just look at me, okay? Focus on me. You're okay; you're safe. Just try and take some deep breaths. Okay?"

Jane could hear the genuine concern in his voice as well as see it in his eyes. Taking the comfort he was offering her, she attempted to calm herself down and slow her breathing. It took a little while for her breathing to return to normal, but with Sherlock there to help, it eventually did.

As soon as her breathing returned to a normal pace, Sherlock hesitantly asked, "Are you ok?"

Instead of a verbal response, Jane simply nodded. Was she okay? Physically, yes. Mentally? Emotionally? She hadn't had a panic attack on that scale since her first couple days in the hospital after her injury. She was embarrassed that Sherlock and the officers had to witness her panic attack, and even though the attack was over, that didn't necessarily mean that her emotions were in check and under control again.

"Are you sure?" he asked, concern still lacing his voice.

"I'm fine," she said, though her voice cracked at the end indicating that she was  _not_ 'fine.'

Instead of arguing with her, though, Sherlock merely nodded before standing up and offering Jane his hand to help her up. As she took his hand and pulled herself off of the floor, she looked around at the scene. The cab driver's body was no longer in the chair, having been placed in a body bag on a stretcher. The blood was still there, though. It was on the chair he was sitting in as well as the table in front of him. Jane looked at the chair she was sitting in prior to the shooting, looking for the pill she had dropped in shock. When she noticed it, she walked over and picked it up before making her way around the table to where the cabbie was to find his pill. She wanted to run some tests on them to see not only the poison they contained, but which pill was which. After collecting the pills, she returned to where Sherlock was standing.

"The paramedics want to check you out, make sure you're okay," he told her. "And I'm sure Lestrade will have some questions for you, though I'm sure he'd understand if you want to wait until later to answer them."

"Really, Sherlock, I'm fine. The paramedics aren't going to find anything wrong with me. But I guess I don't really have a choice, do I?"

Sherlock gave her a small, terse smile. "I'm afraid not."

She and Sherlock walked out of the building to the parking lot that was filled with police cars as well as two ambulances with Sherlock's hand resting on the small of her back the whole way out. She hated feeling so helpless; so fragile. Sherlock was treating her as if she was made of glass and that she'd shatter at any moment. Not that she blamed him, really. After all, she'd just had a massive panic attack. As soon as she was out of the building, she was surrounded by paramedics who guided her to one of the ambulances. They gave her a shock blanket before checking for any signs of injury. Looking down at herself, she noticed that she had a large amount of blood on her.  _His blood._  She figured then that the blood was the reason for the paramedics' (and Sherlock's) concern. She was cleared soon after, but she remained seated on the back of ambulance still wrapped in the blanket. Sherlock was hovering by her but was attempting to give her space by not talking. Lestrade, however, had a different idea. He approached Jane warily. She looked up at him as he approached.

Hesitantly, Lestrade asked, "Look, I'm so sorry about this but I have to ask. You were the only one in the room with him when he was shot. I really doubt you would have done it, but still. You didn't shoot him, did you?"

"No, I didn't. I brought a gun with me, and you can check it if you want, but I didn't shoot him. It was snipers, I saw the red lights right before he was shot," Jane explained, emotionless.

"Okay. I have some more questions about what happened, but they can wait until you've gone home and had some rest," Lestrade told her before placing a hand on her shoulder, offering her a sad smile, and walking away.

"Are you ready to go?" Sherlock asked.

Jane nodded as she stood up, keeping the blanket firmly around her shoulders. The two began walking towards the road in order to hail a taxi.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked her.

"No, not really," she replied.

"You should eat."

She sighed. "You're going to make me eat anyway, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. There's a good Chinese place near Baker Street that stays open until two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle," he told her in an attempt to lighten up the mood somewhat.

Jane looked up at him quizzically. "The bottom third of the door handle?"

"Yes, well, you see..." Sherlock began to explain, but his voice trailed off as he looked at a figure in the distance. Jane turned her head to see what he was looking at and saw none other than Mycroft Holmes and 'Anthea'.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, stiffly as they approached the pair.

"I heard what happened and I was concerned. Wanted to make sure Jane was alright," Mycroft replied with a smirk. Jane couldn't tell if he was being genuine or not.

"Right, yes. Forgive me if I find that rather hard to believe after you essentially kidnapped her earlier this evening."

"Ahh, yes. She told you about that, did she? Again, I do apologise for the dramatic measure, but I was taking extra precautions to avoid your interference, brother," Mycroft explained with a smirk still lingering on his face. He looked over to Jane after he called Sherlock 'brother' and his eyebrows went up in surprise. "You're not surprised to hear that we're brothers, I see. Did Sherlock tell you?"

"No, he didn't. I figured it out for myself, actually. Wasn't that hard to deduce. Now, please, I've had a long day and I just want to get back home," Jane answered.

"Actually, one of the reasons I came was to let you know that I had some people move your things out of your previous residence and into 221B. And to offer you both a ride. I figured you've had enough of cabs today."

Jane was actually rather shocked at the turn of events. Just a few hours prior, he had kidnapped her off the streets of Brixton and now he was offering her favours?

"Oh, sure, I guess. Thank you." Jane replied while glancing over at Sherlock, who didn't look too happy to be accepting his brother's offer, but went along with it nonetheless.

The four of them climbed into the sleek, black car. Anthea sat in the front with the driver while Mycroft opted to be in the back with his brother and Jane, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Jane put on her seatbelt as soon as she entered the car and let out a yawn. Her eyelids were feeling heavier by the second, and the stubborn silence the Holmes brothers were making didn't help matters much either. And after a few moments of struggling to keep her eyes open, Jane finally let sleep overtake her. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, just a quick note before the chapter starts. I decided to shake things up a bit so this chapter is written in first person from Jane's POV. Let me know in a review if you prefer this to be written in first person or in third like I've been doing. I'm not quite sure myself which I prefer so any input is welcome. Anyhow, enjoy this chapter and I will update again as soon as I can!
> 
> ALSO: I went to London! I visited 221B Baker Street (both the real one and the one they use on the show) and it was amazing! Just wanted to share :) Carry on!

About fifteen minutes later, I was gently nudged awake by Sherlock. My eyes fluttered open as I took in my surroundings and I covered my mouth with my hand to let out a yawn. I was confused for a moment before I remembered Mycroft's offer to give us a ride back to the flat. I must've fallen asleep on our way. Looking out the window, I noticed that we were back at Baker Street, which meant, thankfully, that I could go back to sleep as soon as I got inside. Sherlock helped me out of the car and onto the curb and I smiled sleepily at him to say thank you. He responded with a slight smirk before turning to face his brother who had also gotten out of the car. I turned the same direction as well and shifted on my feet awkwardly as none of the brothers seemed to want to be the one to break the silence.  _Must_   _I do everything?_

"Thank you for the ride," I directed towards Mycroft. "And for bringing my things to Baker Street."

"It was no problem at all. I had Anthea put my phone number in your mobile; don't hesitate to contact me if you need anything," Mycroft responded with a smirk that seemed permanently glued to his face.

I hesitated for a moment, not expecting the kind gesture, especially since he had essentially kidnapped me earlier in the evening.

Regaining my composure, I gave him a small smile and replied, "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind in the future. But if you don't mind, I'd really love to get some sleep. Thank you again for everything."

"Again, it was no problem. And I completely understand. Sleep well, Jane. I'm sure we'll be seeing much more of each other in the near future."

The two Holmes siblings gave each other a terse nod in place of a verbal goodbye before Sherlock turned to unlock the front door. As soon as I stepped through the threshold, a relieved sigh escaped my lips. Baker Street was already beginning to feel like home, which was something I hadn't felt about a place in a very long time. I stood there a moment, smiling fondly at the staircase leading up to my new flat. Sherlock was already halfway up the stairs before he noticed I hadn't moved.

"Jane, are you coming?" He asked as he turned around to look at me.

Instead of answering, I simply gave him a small smile before starting to ascend the staircase slowly, still hugging the blanket tightly around my shoulders. By the time I reached the landing, Sherlock had already made his way inside and sat down on his armchair by the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought. I semi-awkwardly leaned against the doorframe for a moment before clearing my throat to get his attention.

"I'm, uh, just going to go upstairs and get some rest. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Right, yes," he replied, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, not completely paying attention.

I shut the door before turning around and heading up the stairs to my room. Going in now, I realised that I had never actually  _seen_  the room before agreeing to move in. It was simple enough, just the basic furniture: a double bed, night-stands, light fixtures, wardrobe, and dresser. It wasn't particularly large, but it was a decent enough size. After all, I suspected that with living with Sherlock I wouldn't spend any more time in this room except to sleep. I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only was all my stuff brought here by Mycroft's people, but it was also unpacked and organised. I walked over to the small dresser and opened drawers until I found some pyjamas. It was the end of January, so I opted for some of my more comfortable fuzzy pyjama bottoms, a basic long-sleeved top, and some fuzzy socks. After I changed (and didn't even bother to pick up my clothes from the floor), I took a few steps over to the bed that, thankfully, was already made. I lifted the duvet before crawling inside and taking comfort from the warmth provided by my pyjamas and the blankets. After everything that had happened, I was absolutely exhausted both mentally and physically. So as soon as I crawled in bed and put my head on the pillow, I was asleep.

* * *

_This time, the nightmare, no, the memory, began differently. I was jogging through the deserted streets of a mostly abandoned village in Afghanistan with the rest of my regiment. Liam, another doctor accompanying us, and I were in the center of the small group as we quickly made our way to our destination. As we neared it, we slowed down to a walk, keeping our eyes peeled for anything suspicious. It was eerily quiet. The only noise I could hear was the heavy breaths of me and my fellow soldiers. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong. Liam, noticing my change in expression, turned to me._

_"What's wrong?" he asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern._

_"I don't know... something just doesn't... feel right," I began. "You know what, just... just ignore me. It's probably nothing," I finished, waving off his worry as we continued ahead._

_A single gunshot rang out and a scream escaped my lips as I fell onto my back. And then all hell broke loose. I could feel the burning in my left shoulder and smell the blood that was beginning to form a small puddle around me. The sounds of yelling and guns being fired slowly faded as I drifted off into unconsciousness._

I awoke with a start, my tearful eyes snapping wide open with a jolt. About a foot in front of my blue eyes was another pair, looking at me, eyebrows furrowed in concern. My breathing was ragged and I closed my eyes as I attempted to push the horrific memory out of my mind. I felt a pressure lift from my wrists, one that I hadn't even noticed was there until it was gone, leaving them cold from the lack of contact. I opened my eyes once again as I pulled my duvet up to my chest and hugged it close in an attempt to replace the warmth that was lost when Sherlock released my wrists. I avoided his eyes as he stood up from his hunched over position. I was  _extremely_ embarrassed that he had found me in such a vulnerable position for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. I could feel my cheeks flush embarrassment and continued to avert my gaze, though I could feel his on me. But even through the embarrassment that I felt, I was grateful that he had woken me up when he did.

"Thanks for waking me," I told him as he started walking out of my bedroom. "I must've been making a lot of noise. Sorry, they're not usually this bad."

Sherlock cleared his throat rather awkwardly and looked back at me. He nodded before leaving the room and going down the stairs in a hurry. I huffed as I released the duvet and covered my face with my hands instead. Was he angry at me? Upset that I woke him? Was he even asleep in the first place? With a sigh, I threw the duvet off of my body and rubbed my eyes as I sat up, preparing to leave the comfort of my bed. There was no way I'd be able to sleep again after that dream, and with that realisation, I got out of my bed and walked over to the window to open the curtains, only to find that it was still dark outside. I guess I didn't get much sleep last night at all.  _What time is it anyway?_  Wanting to sate my curiosity, I walked across the small room to one of my bedside tables and plucked my phone from its charger. It was 6:30 AM. I groaned after I did the math in my head and realised I had only gotten about 4 hours of sleep the night before. That was just my luck. I grabbed my dressing gown from my closet and put it on before heading downstairs. The cold, early morning January air permeated the flat despite the heating and I found myself needing that extra layer of warmth.

I walked down the stairs quietly to make sure I didn't wake Sherlock again if he had gone back to sleep. I wasn't sure that he had, but I wasn't about to disturb him a second time. I chuckled quietly to myself as I made it to the bottom of the stairs and noticed the front door was wide open. Only Sherlock would leave his front door open all night. I peeked my head through the door and didn't see anyone in the living room, so Sherlock either went back to sleep or he was in the kitchen. My bet was that he was asleep, though, especially after all of the running around we did last night. So, I quietly crept into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle to make myself (and Sherlock, should he wake up) some tea. It was only after I started heating the water that I realised the whistling of the kettle when the water was ready might be too loud, but I figured I'd take it off of the hob just before it starts to whistle too loud. A few minutes passed as I hummed softly to myself and soon the water was ready. I prepared the tea and took down two mugs, leaving on empty and sitting next to the teapot, before pouring myself a cup and adding a splash of milk.

I took my tea into the living room and slowly sipped on it as stared out the window onto Baker Street. I wasn't really paying much attention to what was happening, instead, I just sort of zoned out and watched the few people on the street below go about their business as my tea grew colder with me forgetting it was there. Eventually, the sun began to rise. I watched it with a smile on my face as the sky transitioned from the dark navy blue of the night sky to the light blue of the morning sky with all of the gorgeous oranges, yellows, pinks, and purples in between. There was always something about sunrises that made me happy. I always felt that they were so  _different_  from sunsets, even though they were essentially the same. Sunrises just felt...  _warm_ and  _happy._ I looked down at my phone one more time and saw that it was already 8 am. I figured that it was now an acceptable time to start my day, so I got up and put my mug in the sink before heading upstairs to get ready for the day.

When I was fully changed, I came back downstairs and plopped myself into my chair to see Sherlock finally emerging from his bedroom.

"There's some tea on the counter," I called over to him. "Though, on second thought, it's probably cold by now. It's been sitting there for over an hour and a half..."

He didn't say anything, he just sulkily made his way over to his chair across from mine and plopped down rather ungracefully with a scowl on his face.

"Well, good morning to you, Sunshine," I quipped.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, still half asleep.

I chuckled at his response before asking, "Do you think Mrs. Hudson is awake yet? You know her better than I do."

He looked at me quizzically. "I would assume so. She never seems to actually be sleeping. What does it matter?"

"I just wanted to ask her something. I think I want to paint my room, but I want to make sure she's okay with it before I do it, obviously. I'll be right back," I said, rising from my chair and making my way to the stairs.

I was sure Mrs. Hudson would be okay with it. After all, I'm sure Sherlock will cause much more harm to the flat in the future and, in comparison, painting the walls of my bedroom would be a minor thing. But, since I had only met her yesterday, I figured it would be polite to ask her beforehand.

I arrived at the door to 221A and knocked softly, not wanting to wake her if she was still asleep. But sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was awake and looking chipper as ever as she answered the door.

"Oh, Jane dear, come in!" She exclaimed and led me towards her dining room table. "You're up early; didn't you have a late night? I heard you both come home last night, it woke me from my sleep but I was glad you both made it home safe. Finishing up a case, were you?" Mrs. Hudson rambled as she turned on the kettle to make a cuppa for Jane.

"We were, yeah. You know the serial suicides that were in the news?" I asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded in affirmation.

"Well, Sherlock and I figured out that they weren't suicides, they were murders committed by a serial killer. Turns out the killer was a cabbie." I explained as Mrs. Hudson began to prepare the tea.

"A cabbie? Well, that's dreadful. Can't trust anyone anymore, can we? Oh, Jane, dear, how do you take your tea?"

"Just a bit of milk and no sugar, please," I told her while she set the freshly prepared tea on the table in front of me. "Thank you," I smiled as I picked up the tea and took a sip. Mrs. Hudson sat across from me drinking from her own mug.

"Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering if it was alright with you if I painted my bedroom upstairs?"

"Oh that's fine, dear, I don't mind at all. It'll spruce the place up a bit, I'm sure it needs it."

"Perfect, thank you!" I replied happily as I continued drinking the single best cup of tea I'd ever had.

Mrs. Hudson and I exchanged some small talk over the tea and soon I excused myself to go back upstairs. I walked through the door and Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but as I wandered into the living room a bit, I found him in the kitchen performing some sort of chemical experiment. He looked a bit ridiculous wearing lab goggles and I couldn't help but chuckle a bit as I watched him completely entranced in his work, probably even unaware that I was watching. But then again, Sherlock is, in fact, Sherlock.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare?" Sherlock asked me, not even glancing up from his experiment.

I chuckled a bit and was about to turn away when a cloud of smoke erupted from Sherlock's 'lab'. I laughed at the shocked expression on Sherlock's face and ended up having a slight coughing fit as I inhaled whatever it was Sherlock just let loose in the flat. Shaking my head, I walked to the windows in the living room and opened them to air out the flat.

"Sherlock, you should probably open any windows in your bedroom also!" I called out to him, wherever he disappeared to.

"Already done," he replied smugly, suddenly appearing behind me.

I yelped in surprise at the sudden proximity and turned to face him with a glare.

"We're going out," I told him.

"Oh, we are?"

"Yes. We  _are._  Because  _somebody_  thought it would be a good idea to mix chemicals, and now we need to air out the flat.  _Probably_  shouldn't be here while that's happening. I'm going upstairs to grab my coat and things. Meet me downstairs and grab a taxi, will you?"

"And where exactly are we going?"

I tilted my head, considering whether or not to tell him. If I told him that I needed to go buy some paint, he'd most likely refuse to go. But... if I don't tell him my plans, maybe the mystery will be enough to get him to go.

"You'll see when we get there," I said as I began walking out the front door and to the stairs. "Oh!" I called back, remembering, "Make sure to shut the door when you leave this time, we don't want the fumes going down to 221A!"

After a quick trip to my bedroom to grab the essentials, I walked downstairs to find Sherlock sitting in a cab and waiting for me. I was a little wary of being in a cab again after last night. I was even warier when the cabbie drove off before I gave him an address. It must have shown on my face, though because Sherlock said, "Relax. I told him to take us to Scotland Yard. Lestrade needs our statements."

I sighed with relief at Sherlock's explanation. "Oh... right. Sorry, I forgot we needed to go in today."

"Not all cabbies are serial killers, Jane," Sherlock reassured me as he glanced over at me.

"No, I-I know. I'm just a bit paranoid after last night. I'll be fine soon."

"Would you rather take the tube for the next few days?" Sherlock asked, though he looked quite uncomfortable at the prospect.

"No, that's alright. I can tell you don't like the tube. Plus, I can't get over it if I avoid it, so. May as well just face it," I explained with a sigh.

The conversation ended after that. Sherlock and I sat in the cab in a comfortable silence. It was a bit unnerving being in the cab at first, but just having Sherlock there, even though I'd only known him for a few days, was comforting in its own way. I was dreading having to give my statement to Lestrade. I really was not looking forward to reliving the night before and to be completely honest, I was terrified to think about it again. Subconsciously, my arms drifted upwards until they were holding my torso in a sort of self-hug.

"Jane?" He asked; a hint of concern lacing his voice.

"Hm?" I replied blankly, not really listening.

"Jane, look at me."

I did as he told and noticed his brows slightly furrowed in concern. It was then that I noticed that a few tears escaped in my trance. I quickly wiped them from my face, embarrassed.

"When Lestrade is taking your statement, would it make you more comfortable if I was in the room with you? You're more likely to feel calmer if there's a... friendly... face in the room."

I gave him a small smile. "I would like that, yeah. Thank you. And I do consider you a friend, you know."

The cab finally stopped in front of Scotland Yard and I got out of it as fast as I could, leaving Sherlock to pay. I walked up to the kerb in front of the station and took a deep breath.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"As I'll ever be..." I replied with a sigh.

And, together, we walked into the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thank you for reading! Sorry for this being a sort of filler chapter, but at least there was some Janelock fluff! The next few chapters will be completely original as well, so it will be a while until TBB. A huge thank you to Miloni Shah for listening to my constant rambling about this chapter and helping me when I need it. Love you all!


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